Detective Lecoq - Complete Murder Mysteries. Emile Gaboriau
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hardly knew whether to rejoice or mourn.
“Yes,” he continued, “I give you back your liberty.”
Jenny made a gesture which Hector misunderstood.
“Oh! be quiet,” he added quickly, “I sha’n’t leave you thus; I would not desert you in a state of need. This furniture is yours, and I have provided for you besides. Here in my pocket are five hundred napolйons; it is my all; I have brought it to give to you.”
He passed the money over to her on a plate, laughingly, imitating the restaurant waiters. She pushed it back with a shudder.
“Oh, well,” said he, “that’s a good sign, my dear; very good, very good. I’ve always thought and said that you were a good girl—in fact, too good; you needed correcting.”
She did, indeed, have a good heart; for instead of taking Hector’s bank-notes and turning him out of doors, she tried to comfort and console him. Since he had confessed to her that he was penniless, she ceased to hate him, and even commenced to love him. Hector, homeless, was no longer the dreaded man who paid to be master, the millionnaire who, by a caprice, had raised her from the gutter. He was no longer the execrated tyrant. Ruined, he descended from his pedestal, he became a man like others, to be preferred to others, as a handsome and gallant youth. Then Jenny mistook the last artifice of a discarded vanity for a generous impulse of the heart, and was deeply touched by this splendid last gift.
“You are not as poor as you say,” she said, “for you still have so large a sum.”
“But, dear child, I have several times given as much for diamonds which you envied.”
She reflected a moment, then as if an idea had struck her, exclaimed:
“That’s true enough; but I can spend, oh, a great deal less, and yet be just as happy. Once, before I knew you, when I was young (she was now nineteen), ten thousand francs seemed to me to be one of those fabulous sums which were talked about, but which few men ever saw in one pile, and fewer still held in their hands.”
She tried to slip the money into the count’s pocket; but he prevented it.
“Come, take it back, keep it—”
“What shall I do with it?”
“I don’t know, but wouldn’t this money bring in more? Couldn’t you speculate on the Bourse, bet at the races, play at Baden, or something? I’ve heard of people that are now rich as kings, who commenced with nothing, and hadn’t your talents either. Why don’t you do as they did?”
She spoke excitedly, as a woman does who is anxious to persuade. He looked at her, astonished to find her so sensitive, so disinterested.
“You will, won’t you?” she insisted, “now, won’t you?”
“You are a good girl,” said he, charmed with her, “but you must take this money. I give it to you, don’t be worried about anything.”
“But you—have you still any money? What have you?”
“I have yet—”
He stopped, searched his pockets, and counted the money in his purse.
“Faith, here’s three hundred and forty francs—more than I need. I must give some napolйons to your servants before I go.”
“And what for Heaven’s sake will become of you?”
He sat back in his chair, negligently stroked his handsome beard, and said:
“I am going to blow my brains out.”
“Oh!”
Hector thought that she doubted what he said. He took his pistols out of his pockets, showed them to her, and went on:
“You see these toys? Well, when I leave you, I shall go somewhere —no matter where—put the muzzle to my temple, thus, press the trigger—and all will be over!”
She gazed at him, her eyes dilated with terror, pale, breathing hard and fast. But at the same time, she admired him. She marvelled at so much courage, at this calm, this careless railing tone. What superb disdain of life! To exhaust his fortune and then kill himself, without a cry, a tear, or a regret, seemed to her an act of heroism unheard of, unexampled. It seemed to her that a new, unknown, beautiful, radiant man stood before her. She loved him as she had never loved before!
“No!” she cried, “no! It shall not be!”
And rising suddenly, she rushed to him and seized him by the arm.
“You will not kill yourself, will you? Promise me, swear it to me. It isn’t possible, you would not! I love you—I couldn’t bear you before. Oh, I did not know you, but now—come, we will be happy. You, who have lived with millions don’t know how much ten thousand francs are—but I know. We can live a long time on that, and very well, too. Then, if we are obliged to sell the useless things—the horses, carriages, my diamonds, my green cashmere, we can have three or four times that sum. Thirty thousand francs—it’s a fortune! Think how many happy days—”
The Count de Tremorel shook his head, smilingly. He was ravished; his vanity was flattered by the heat of the passion which beamed from the poor girl’s eyes. How he was beloved! How he would be regretted! What a hero the world was about to lose!
“For we will not stay here,” Jenny went on, “we will go and conceal ourselves far from Paris, in a little cottage. Why, on the other side of Belleville you can get a place surrounded by gardens for a thousand francs a year. How well off we should be there! You would never leave me, for I should be jealous—oh, so jealous! We wouldn’t have any servants, and you should see that I know how to keep house.”
Hector said nothing.
“While the money lasts,” continued Jenny, “we’ll laugh away the days. When it’s all gone, if you are still decided, you will kill yourself—that is, we will kill ourselves together. But not with a pistol—No! We’ll light a pan of charcoal, sleep in one another’s arms, and that will be the end. They say one doesn’t suffer that way at all.”
This idea drew Hector from his torpor, and awoke in him a recollection which ruffled all his vanity.
Three or four days before, he had read in a paper the account of the suicide of a cook, who, in a fit of love and despair, had bravely suffocated himself in his garret. Before dying he had written a most touching letter to his faithless love. The idea of killing himself like a cook made him shudder. He saw the possibility of the horrible comparison. How ridiculous! And the Count de Tremorel had a wholesome fear of ridicule. To suffocate himself, at Belleville, with a grisette, how dreadful! He almost rudely pushed Jenny’s arms away, and repulsed her.
“Enough of that sort of thing,” said he, in his careless tone. “What you say, child, is all very pretty, but utterly absurd. A man of my name dies, and doesn’t choke.” And taking the bank-notes from his pocket, where Jenny had slipped them, he threw them on the table.
“Now, good-by.”
He would have gone, but Jenny, red and with glistening eyes, barred the door with her body.
“You shall not go!” she cried, “I won’t have you; you are mine—for I love you; if you take one step, I will scream.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“But we must end all this!”
“You sha’n’t go!”
“Well, then, I’ll blow my brains out here.” And taking out one of his pistols, he held it to his forehead, adding, “If you call out and don’t let me pass, I shall fire.” He meant the threat for earnest.
But Jenny did not call out; she could not; she uttered a deep groan and fainted.
“At last!” muttered Hector, replacing the pistol in his pocket.
He went out, not taking time to lift